in this thin salad? Do I have to do everything myself?
Take this one word: elegy; write it in letters that
mount to the sky. Come with me where our hands
find purchase in each other; where I can claw from
these simple ways some big song, some aria to
go with the storm of our days. Remember when
you called my name out of hell’s dry foundry,
and met me with your lips. All I could say
was caught on the sticks we brought under cover,
and crushed so with our young and pliant flesh.
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